Chapter 5 Containment Protocols #2
“I’m a safety inspector with state-of-the-art xenobiological scanners who just spent forty-seven minutes documenting exactly how the bonding pheromones affect my system,” she counters.
“I know what’s biology and what’s choice, Crash.
And choosing to lie here on this floor with you while my career burns down around me? That’s choice.”
From somewhere nearby comes a pleased warbling sound, and we both look up to find Jitters oozing across the deck toward us with determined purpose.
He’s carrying two cups of coffee balanced carefully on pseudopods, glowing happy pink and vibrating with what I’m beginning to recognize as satisfaction that his matchmaking efforts are bearing fruit.
“He made coffee,” Zola observes.
“He is very supportive of our bonding,” I explain, carefully accepting one cup while trying not to dislodge Zola from her position against my chest. “Also extremely invested in domestic harmony.”
Jitters warbles agreement and presents Zola with the second cup, his pink glow intensifying to almost neon levels of enthusiasm.
“Thanks, Jitters,” she says, taking the cup with genuine warmth that makes the Junglix practically vibrate with happiness.
We lie there on the medical bay floor drinking blob-creature-brewed coffee in companionable silence while Jitters puddles nearby in contented supervision.
It should feel absurd—two people who barely know each other, biochemically bonded by accident, drinking coffee on the floor while being hunted by an alien gladiator.
Instead, it feels right.
“We should probably get up,” Zola says eventually. “Move to somewhere more comfortable. Set course for Kallos Station before Thek-Ka decides intellectual stimulation includes boarding actions.”
“Yes,” I agree, but neither of us moves.
“In a minute,” she adds.
“In a minute,” I echo.
We lie there for another three minutes before she finally sits up, carefully disentangling herself from my arms in a way that keeps us within comfortable range. I immediately miss the weight of her against my chest, the way her breathing synced with mine, the vanilla-honey scent that surrounded me.
But I force myself to stand and offer her a hand up because holding her on the medical bay floor indefinitely—no matter how appealing—isn’t practical given our current circumstances.
She accepts my hand and lets me pull her to her feet, and the brief contact sends electricity racing through the bond that makes us both catch our breath.
“That’s going to be a problem,” she observes.
“What will be a problem?”
“Every time we touch, the bond reacts like we’ve completed some kind of circuit.
” She demonstrates by taking my hand again, and sure enough, the warmth that floods through the connection is immediate and intense.
“How am I supposed to function professionally when holding hands feels like...” She trails off, clearly searching for an appropriate analogy.
“Like everything suddenly makes sense,” I finish quietly.
She looks at me with those analytical green eyes, and I see the moment she decides not to deny it.
“Yes,” she says simply.
We’re still holding hands when my ship’s—no, her ship’s—AI decides to interject with aggressively helpful timing.
“Zola,” KiKi announces in a voice that sounds distinctly pleased with itself, “I’ve been monitoring your recovery from the separation incident, and I’m delighted to report that your biochemical compatibility ratings have improved by seventeen percent since initiating sustained physical contact with your partner. ”
The lights in the medical bay dim to what I can only describe as “romantic ambiance” levels.
“Furthermore,” KiKi continues, “I’ve prepared a comprehensive guide to optimal bonding practices during extended space travel, including suggested activities for emotional intimacy development, recommended sleeping arrangements for biochemical stability, and a curated selection of entertainment media that promotes healthy relationship dynamics. ”
Soft music begins playing from hidden speakers—something with strings and what might be Velogian mating harmonics.
“I am strongly opposed to these atmospheric modifications,” I say quickly, because Zola’s expression has shifted to something between mortification and homicidal intent toward her ship’s AI.
“KiKi,” she says with dangerous calm, “restore normal lighting immediately and turn off the music.”
“But Zola, research indicates that romantic ambiance significantly increases bonding satisfaction among newly mated pairs—”
“Normal. Lighting. Now.”
The lights reluctantly return to standard medical bay settings, though the music continues playing at reduced volume.
“I take no responsibility for your AI’s matchmaking tendencies,” I say carefully.
“My AI has decided we need relationship support,” Zola mutters. “As if being biochemically bonded wasn’t enough—now we have electronic supervision of our romantic development.”
“It could be worse,” I point out. “At least KiKi is attempting to be helpful rather than hostile.”
“That’s what concerns me most.”
We finally make it to the cockpit—staying carefully within the ten-foot boundary that now defines our entire existence. The walk should feel awkward, like we’re tethered together, but instead there’s something almost natural about the way we move in synchronization.
Zola slides into the pilot’s chair while I take the co-pilot position, close enough that the bond hums with contentment but far enough that we’re not actually touching.
The proximity should feel crowding after eighty-four minutes of enforced separation anxiety, but instead it feels like the missing piece of a complex system finally clicking into place.
She pulls up the navigation interface with practiced efficiency, her fingers flying across the controls with the kind of competence that makes my heart rate spike in ways that have nothing to do with danger.
“Course plotted for Kallos Station,” she announces. “Three days, four hours, sixteen minutes at maximum sustainable speed.”
“Will we need to stop for supplies?”
“The Precision is a mobile repair and inspection craft. We’re equipped for extended solo operations.” She pauses, considering. “Though I should probably run a full systems diagnostic before we depart. Make sure Thek-Ka’s friendly departure didn’t damage anything critical.”
“I can assist with the diagnostic,” I offer. “I have some technical training from my courier work.”
She glances at me with surprise. “You’re qualified for ship systems work?”
“I am qualified to keep aging courier vessels operational through creative problem-solving and questionable safety shortcuts,” I admit. “Whether that translates to competent assistance with properly maintained inspection craft remains to be demonstrated.”
Something in her expression shifts—not quite amusement, but warmer than the professional neutrality she’s been maintaining.
“All right,” she says. “You handle the engine diagnostics while I verify life support and navigation systems. We work better together anyway.”
The words settle into my chest with unexpected weight.
Together.
For three days at minimum. Possibly longer if we can’t find a way to break or stabilize the bond.
Three days of enforced proximity, shared quarters, constant awareness of each other’s presence and emotional state.
Three days of fighting the attraction that the bond keeps insisting is both natural and inevitable.
Three days of trying to maintain some semblance of professional boundaries while biochemically compelled to stay within ten feet of each other at all times.
“We should probably discuss the logistics,” I say carefully. “Of living arrangements during the journey.”
She doesn’t look up from her systems check, but I see her shoulders tense slightly.
“Such as?”
“Sleeping arrangements. Bathroom coordination. Privacy requirements during what will be extended cohabitation in limited space.”
“Right.” She finally meets my eyes, and I can see her trying to approach this analytically rather than emotionally. “I have one proper bunk in the crew quarters, a medical bay bed that’s designed for emergency rest, and a co-pilot seat that reclines to uncomfortable angles.”
“I can take the medical bay bed,” I offer immediately. “You should have your own quarters.”
“The medical bay is fifteen feet from the crew quarters.” She pulls up a schematic of The Precision and highlights the distances. “We’d be outside the comfortable range.”
I study the layout, calculating. “The co-pilot seat is within range of your bunk. I could sleep there.”
“For three days?” She shakes her head. “You’d destroy your back.”
“My back is not the priority here.”
“Your comfort is absolutely a priority,” she says firmly. “We’re both trapped in this situation. Neither of us should have to be physically miserable on top of everything else.”
“What are you suggesting?”
She takes a breath, clearly steeling herself.
“We share the bunk. It’s large enough for two people if we don’t mind being in close contact.
The bond will be stable, we’ll both get actual rest, and we can maintain whatever professional boundaries are still possible given that we’re biochemically connected. ”
The suggestion sends heat racing through my system—not arousal exactly, though that’s definitely present—but something deeper. Relief that she’s willing to accept the practical reality of our situation rather than trying to maintain impossible distance.
“You are certain?” I ask carefully. “Sharing sleeping quarters is quite intimate, even with professional intentions.”
“Crash, we’re bonded. We can feel each other’s emotional states and get separation sickness if we’re more than ten feet apart. I think we’re past worrying about sleeping arrangements being too intimate.”
She has a point.